How To Kill Kloppman In Five Easy Steps
by truemizzie
Summary: Um, Jack,' he began, a little funnily, 'I think that shirt under your bed just moved.' Strogue submission.


How to Kill Kloppman in Five Easy Steps

The boys gathered around a table downstairs at the Lodging House. Racetrack sat at the head of this table, an envelope securely in his hand. It was a letter. Each boy took a nervous glance at the person across from him, all wondering whether or not they should read it aloud. Racetrack was the one to make that decision. He very slowly began to rip along the top of the envelope, eventually pulling out a short but full piece of paper. He read:

"Dear boys,

"If you are reading this, it is either because my eminent death was a false alarm and you all decided to look rudely through my things (in which case, put this letter down _now!_) or because I am, in fact, deceased (a depressing prospect). Either way, this is my will, and something that you will eventually read no matter what.

"I fear that you will be disappointed by the contents of this will, for even though it does contain what I would like to leave to you boys (not that there's much), it also contains an explanation of my death. It was not cancer (even though the doctors will insist that it was), it was not starvation and it was definitely not a broken heart, so don't even _try_ telling anybody that. I'm quite happy, in fact, to be able to see my wife in heaven after such a long time of missing her, and I'm sure she will feel the same way about me (providing, of course, that she has not found herself another, younger angel).

"But alas, none of those things have killed me. Here is a list of the five things that were done to easily bring me to my grave:

"Step one is probably the most obvious: not waking up! It puts me in a terrible mood when I walk into the bunkroom every morning to wake you all up, and have to stand around screaming for what feels like an hour before you all have awoken. I do not enjoy the task of turning 30 sleeping, quiet, almost cute children into a bunch of evildoers who have nothing better to do with their time than torment me by attempting to sleep for even longer. I wake (or perhaps woke) at five am so that I could get all of you up by six and down to the Distribution Office and I'm sure that I always fell asleep a long time after you most of you boys would, due to your inability to shut up before 2 in the morning. If you dare act this way for my poor, innocent son (who, of course, is taking over my position), I swear that I will haunt you something terrible.

"Step two is also surprisingly clear: using up all of the shaving cream. Every morning, you boys (especially Jack, Mush and Racetrack) feel the need to shave your hairless faces. Not only do you perform the unnecessary task, but you feel the need to use a puddle of shaving cream to do it, as if to cover if the fact that there is not actually one hair residing on your face. You should leave the cream for men like myself, who actually need to have a good shave every once in a while. I have an image to uphold!

"And yes, Jack, I do expect my corpse to be shaven. That was an awful joke.

"The third way to kill me? Rodents. There's a recent story for this one:

"It was a morning just like any other when I walked into the bunkroom, trying to get all of you boys out of bed. However, that can never work out the way I'd like it to. I was simply walking down the aisles, checking on all of you kids, when I heard Mush speaking to Jack.

_"'Um, Jack,'_ he began, a little funnily, _'I think that shirt under your bed just moved.'_

"Of course, Mush had always been a little odd in the morning, almost too keen to awaken, but this prospect was far too frightening to ignore. I inched towards the baffled Jack's bed, watching as a shirt beneath it twitched around. Most of you boys were ignoring me, and watching the suddenly animated piece of apparel. It grabbed onto the object and pulled. There, right in front of me, was a very scary, very white rat.

"It ran around the room, all of you boys screaming for _me,_ a poor old man, to catch it myself. Naturally, I did so, as none of you chickens were willing. I killed the rat under my foot and began yelling (using up my precious child waking voice), asking who brought it in. It turned out that The Child (who you all feel the need to give a human name: Tumbler) had brought it inside as a pet. Not only this, but all of you had mocked _me_ for perhaps allowing a few screams of terror to escape from my lips. Never again. Please, boys.

"Jack, don't you dare put that I'm afraid of rats in my eulogy. I _will_ have to haunt you.

"Now we're onto step four: dancing. Every morning. Every day, after you are finally awake, shaven and all of the rodents are killed, you feel the need to sing and dance your way out of the Lodging House. I can't imagine how the people outside must see you. Is this a selling trick? If it is, I can't imagine how it would possibly work, but I digress.

"Just don't try and teach my son anything. He has two left feet.

"Stop laughing, Jack. I meant that quite literally.

"No, it doesn't run in the family. I myself am a fairly good dancer. I do (did?) a mean two step.

"And yes, Racetrack, I do think that Gene Kelly would be a fine stage name.

"Anyways, all of this brings me to step five: the final way to kill me, Jonathan Kloppman. Here it is:

"To force him me run a Lodging House for thirty newsies, all of whom perform numbers 1-4 as freely and frequently as birds.

"All of these things in conjunction are, in fact, my true murderers. However, even though you might all feel terribly guilty at the moment (as you should), here's a nice trick: if I am not yet dead (though I fear that is not the case if you have continued to read this far, but there is a chance), please read on, for I have also enclosed in this letter the one way to revive me, and make me live for as long as my frail body can take. Here goes nothing:

"The one, single, perfect way to keep me, Jonathan Kloppman, alive for as long as humanly possible:

"To force him me run a Lodging House for thirty newsies, all of whom perform numbers 1-4 as freely and frequently as birds.

"Surprised? I thought you would be. You see, you boys have been the sole reason for me to continue on in my miserable life. You have given me a reason to wake up at five in the morning, to have a dirty, unshaven face every day, to kill rats and even learn how to tap dance. Without you, I could not have survived for as long as I did. You have trumped the first five steps. Congratulations.

"So, this letter is getting quite long already, and I have decided not to bore you with who gets what. You are all aware that I am leaving you my only son, who I know will take good care of you, just I tried to. I'm sure that you'll figure out the rest eventually.

"I love you all very dearly, as much as my own son.

"In fact, just as if you _were_ my own sons, only mine looks a lot more like me.

"Yes, that is a good thing for him. That's not sarcastic, Jack.

"Yours from the grave,

Kloppman.

"P.S. Check the top drawer."

After reading the letter, all of the newsies could be found with tears in their eyes and laughter on their lips. After a few moments, they decided to follow his final instructions, a great irony considering their previous behavior. Ever so slowly, Jack inched towards the sign in desk. He placed his hand on the handle of the top drawer, where they all knew Kloppman used to keep his writing utensils. Once everybody had gathered around, Jack slowly pulled open the drawer. They all gasped.

It was entirely full of money. Racetrack approached the drawer and began counting each coin as he placed them on the top of the desk. He was up to 40 dollars when Jack jumped in.

"Hurry up, can't you?" he complained.

"Well, _you_ do it, then!"

Jack followed his instruction and began pulling the money out unceremoniously. Racetrack tried to count the coins, but they were moving to quickly. Suddenly, they heard a high pitched noise - Jack had screamed.

For, under all of the money (which amounted to nearly 200 dollars), there was a note, and when Jack lifted that note, they found a very dead, very white rat. While Jack composed himself, Racetrack picked up the note. He grinned as he read it aloud to the group:

_"Who's squealing now?"_

_

* * *

_

Well, that's Kloppman for you, the mobster. This was some of the most fun I've ever had writing a story.

I'd like to thank Stress and Rogue for their "Prompts" contest, which inspired this story/submission. As you can see, the prompt I chose was: _"Um, Jack, I think that shirt under your bed just moved."_ If you'll believe it, this entire story was inspired by that _one_ line. Crazy how the mind works, isn't it?

Oh, and please leave a review…you know how much I love reviews!


End file.
